Evolution
by AnnieXMuller
Summary: Four moments, small snippets, of a relationship evolving. Post-Always. Rated T for language.


**AN: I went through a 'woe is me, I hate my writing' phase last week. The muse packed her bags, and I pretty much gave up on the idea of ever writing a Castle fic again. Then this happened, after spending a Friday evening listening to Eva Cassidy. Inspiration comes from the strangest places sometimes. So this is me just trying to get back into writing again. A little exercise in the words putting into sentences doing. **

* * *

**Evolution**

Beckett no longer notices the smells of the city, of car exhausts, the trash littering the pavements, the rivers.

Until she returns after spending time away.

That's when it hits her, engulfs her, and permeates deep. For a moment it's nauseating, but then the familiarity settles over her, and she embraces it, loves it. This is her city.

The precinct assaults her senses; the rush of freshly brewed coffee, and body odor, the taste of stale air on her tongue, it all almost knocks her off her feet as the elevator doors open. There's too much going on, too many people moving hastily around, handing notes to one another like some kind of police relay race, trying to get the information to the right person in the fastest time possible. A folded piece of paper is passed to her as she moves through the bullpen, and it all happens in a blur as her hand instinctively clamps around it, feels the smooth texture of the paper, accepts it. She keeps walking, never slowing her pace. It's a familiar dance.

His eyes light up when they find hers through the sea of people, and she nods her head. She won't grin like a fool in love, won't even let the corners of her lips curve up in the smallest of smiles. She loves him, and it's a secret only he knows. This relationship is new; it's only her second day back but Gates is watching them like a hawk, Lanie has already pulled her aside to question her about Castle, and Espo and Ryan keep throwing her glances that suggest they _know. _

She won't let it show; this relationship has to be kept a secret – from everyone.

He smiles broadly at her as she approaches, his arm already extended, silently offering her the coffee cup in it before she's even standing before him. She will accept the coffee, thank him, uncap a marker, and turn her attention to the murderboard – and pretend that he isn't blatantly staring at her ass and giving them both away.

* * *

There are topics they don't discuss: Marriage and children; selling her apartment; moving her entire life into his; why there are little notes scrawled in the margins of her copies of his older Storm novels, words that come together to form sentences like: _I miss you, Mom._

There are questions; she sees them in his eyes.

Jenny and Kevin join them at The Old Haunt, and she swears she sees the longing in Castle's eyes as he watches the married couple. Maybe it's regret. She doesn't ask. They don't discuss it.

Alexis, his baby girl, stops by the loft each week and tells her father stories of the past five days of college life, and he smiles and nods, and hugs her when it's needed. After she leaves to return to her dorm, Kate wraps her own arms around him, and kisses his cheek. She is still – might always be – the one to initiate the hugs (it has to be on her terms, after all) , but he needs them after a visit from his daughter. _It's needed_.

Still they don't discuss children, they don't dare utter the word 'baby'. He can't even bring himself to propose. He's too goddamn scared of screwing it up, too fucking scared she'll say no. He's been married twice already, who's to say the third one won't fail as well. And he can't lose her because he's the idiot incapable of making it work. _He can't lose her._

She barely sleeps at her apartment anymore. She stops by daily, to keep up the appearance that it's being lived in. It's not. Her clothes hang in his closet, the books she couldn't be without sit in his shelves, and his bathroom smells a lot more feminine now than it once did. But they don't mention her apartment, don't discuss it at all. She won't say out loud that she sometimes wonders if he isn't as all in as he swears. But maybe she's the one who isn't all in, maybe she's keeping her apartment as a back-up - for when it all collapses around her...

They don't discuss that either.

He's flicked through her copies of his novels, found the one he signed for her so many years prior (and he hates that he doesn't remember her that day, and feels like she's someone who shouldn't have been forgotten). He finds her neat handwriting flowing around his printed words. He reads these notes to her mother, goes back in time and watches her fresh grief unfold on the pages. He never mentions that he found these words, doesn't question just how much his books meant to her - or how much they mean to her still. He sees it all now, he understands.

They realize, one evening when she's feeling punchy after a tough case, and he's working through writer's block, that they don't communicate like they should. One year together, and she feels herself pulling back. One year together and they just don't talk like they should. This evening, instead of talking, they fight. She yells. He keeps his voice low, but the fire in each word burns her. They're both so goddamn fucking scared of destroying this, of being the cause for the end of the best damn thing they've ever experienced, that they've both shielded part of their hearts from one another. Enough. No more. His books saved her once, and she wants to move in completely if he'll accept her. And oh God he wants to marry her, spend the rest of his damn life with her, and raise a kid – or two.

They finally speak the words out loud.

The sex that night is quite possibly the best either have ever had.

* * *

She still sees his smile, still sees his eyes light up when they meet hers – even if they're only meeting in her dreams now. She hears his voice in her head, but it's still as clear, still as real, as if he were standing before her.

Damn, she misses him. The memories form a clamp around her heart and the ache is so fierce she grips at her desk in the precinct, her fingernails digging into the hard wooden surface, desperately clinging to it, barely staying on her feet.

The unfairness of it all still keeps her awake some nights. She has - on occasion - broken down in the shower, the water mixing with her tears, and wept softly, her sobs drowned out by the water spraying down over and around her.

She holds her head high at the precinct, but they all see the sadness in her eyes. She knows she's angrier than she used to be. She knows she's quicker to snap.

And then Castle is there, wrapping his arms around her (when did she start allowing him to hug her?), rubbing comforting circles against her back, whispering into her ear, bringing her back to herself. She pushes him away gently, and avoids the eyes of the detectives in the room. Their relationship is no secret now, but she still struggles with letting it show at work.

That isn't all she struggles with.

She misses her dad so much.

She can't believe she's lost both her parents now.

* * *

Castle once told her he had waited four years for her to open her eyes, to see him waiting for her. What she didn't tell him then (but did eventually tell him, after _that_ fight) was just how open her eyes really were. She saw him, saw everything. She adored the idea of him before they ever met, since she turned to the first page of her first Storm novel and fell for his words, for the worlds he created. Young and enamored, she had gone back through his works, absorbed them all. The frustration she felt the first time she had to wait for his next novel to be released lingers in her still. She remembers the urgency of _needing _new Storm, the anticipation as the release date drew nearer, the relief of having the hardcover, the smell of the paper, the shine of the dust jacket, in her hands.

The fan became the muse became the girlfriend…

It still makes her pause and smile sometimes, makes her wonder how this became her life. She was a detective mourning the loss of her mother. No, this sort of thing was meant to happen to those more glamorous than herself.

Yet, four years after almost dying alone brought her to his door, here she is now, staring at a ring on her finger, no longer wearing one around her neck.

...Became the wife.

The author who was just a face on the back of a novel, and a one-time brief meeting at a book signing, became her observer, became her friend, became her partner...

...Became the goddamn love of her messed up life.

* * *

_Thoughts?_


End file.
